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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713506">Kissing Lessons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson'>objectlesson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Time, Frottage, Instruction, Kissing, M/M, Master/Servant, Negotiations, Pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:35:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a shitty kisser. Merlin offers instructional assistance.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>249</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Kissing Lessons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>LOLLL this was spawned from the way that EVERY time Gwen and Arthur kiss, they just stand there with their lips pressed together and their mouths closed like sixth graders at a dance. It's very cute and awkward and I wanted to write about it. </p><p>A note! I didn't tag cheating/adultery or anything like that. This takes place some point in season 2 or 3 when their romance is not fully actualized or acted on and exists merely as a courtly love thing. Furthermore I read their relationship as a comp-het situation anyway! I love both of their characters so much and I think it makes a lot of sense for them to interpret their closeness and friendship and trust as a romantic love within the context of the show. That being said there's still absolutely room for Arthur and Merlin to figure out their messy shit and Gwen to win back Morgana, imo. This story will be multiple chapters and might address some of those issues, we'll see how much steam I have.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not that Arthur is a <em>bad</em> kisser.  It’s only a skill he hasn’t yet <em>perfected</em>. Not like jousting or swordsmanship or coming up with new and creative insults to toss in Merlin’s general direction. It’s not his <em>fault, </em>he was too busy being the crown prince of Camelot and assuming he would have to marry some princess he’d never met for political reasons his whole life to ever dedicate much thought to the act of <em>romancing. </em>He figured when the time was right, he’d eventually kiss a girl and after the initial awkwardness he’d get the hang of it and the rest would follow naturally. It would be like riding a horse. </p><p>But as it turns out, kissing is <em>not</em> like riding a horse. It’s not like anything at all. He has no <em>idea</em> what it’s like because so far, every time he’s kissed Gwen, upon chastely pressing their lips together Arthur just—freezes. Stands there locked up, eyes shut, their mouths flush and unmoving, his lungs full with the smell of the peppermint essential oil Gwen rubs onto her temples for headaches. It doesn’t feel <em>bad, </em>but it also doesn't feel good. It feels terrifying. His heart pounds until eventually one of them pulls away, and then he’s blushing and stupid for hours after the fact, replaying it over and over again in his head trying to figure out where it all goes wrong. He <em>knows</em> that’s not how kisses are supposed to go, he <em>knows</em> there should be like, tongues and motion and friction and excitement and all that. But every time he actually <em>does</em> kiss Gwen, his brain simply shuts off and his body stops moving and—well. It’s beginning to become a bit of a problem, he thinks. </p><p>He’s been brooding about it for several days, more quiet and sullen and reserved than he wants to be, and because Merlin is simultaneously the stupidest and also most observant person in the universe, he’s noticed his change in behavior and <em>will not leave</em> Arthur alone about it. Every moment they are alone together he’s prying, and meddling, and throwing out increasingly absurd suggestions for Arthur to shoot down. </p><p>“A neighboring kingdom is planning to invade Camelot,” he says, heels resting up on an upholstered chair as he polishes Arthur’s boots. “Or perhaps there’s some monster, picking off villagers.” </p><p>“No,” Arthur snaps, pushing his roast carrots around on his plate despondently. </p><p>“Hm, alright then, you….oh! One of your knights beat you terribly during training and you’re humiliated.” </p><p>Arthur wads up his napkin and chucks it at Merlin’s head. “<em>No.” </em></p><p><em>“</em>Is it…your special time of the month?” he offers, smile cheeky, eyes bright, and <em>ugh</em> Arthur <em>really</em> wishes he hadn’t wasted his napkin because now there’s nothing to throw. </p><p>“Merlin,” he says, deciding he’s not above flicking food like a child and sending a pea across the table at Merlin with his thumb and forefinger. “Shut up.” </p><p>Due to repeated exposure Merlin is very good at dodging attacks, so the pea merely rolls to the floor as he jerks effortlessly from the line of fire. “Listen,” he says then in a voice that’s entirely too gentle, casting his gaze back to Arthur’s half-polished left boot. “You haven't eaten in two days. All you do is pout. You have to talk to <em>someone</em> about whatever it is that’s bothering you, or else—”</p><p>“I kissed Gwen,” Arthur blurts, because despite being the stupidest person in the world, Merlin <em>somehow</em> is also the best to talk to. Perhaps it’s only because of the sheer power of persistence, but Arthur really <em>does</em> always end up caving and confessing to him, and usually, it helps. </p><p>Merlin’s eyes flash in the peculiar way they <em>always</em> do when Arthur speaks of Gwen. Like he knows something Arthur doesn’t, like he’s resigned to brace for some mysterious impact. Arthur <em>could</em> ask about it, but he’s afraid of what he might find if he goes tripping over wasps nests. In all likelihood, he might get stung. “And?” Merlin asks then, cocking his head into a mock-casual tilt as he furiously polishes. “You two <em>are</em> courting, I thought you kissed her all the time.” </p><p>Arthur sighs, making a face. “Not all the time. Only a few times. But—“ he cuts himself off, stabbing his fork through the otherwise untouched chicken thigh on his plate. </p><p>Merlin looks at him, eyes bright and wide and so terribly blue Arthur wishes he could throw something all over again. “But what?” </p><p>“But! But it’s. I’m not. I just don’t think—”</p><p>“Do you not <em>like</em> kissing Gwen?” Merlin asks then, looking both genuinely surprised and almost—elated? No, not quite that. There’s a baffled wildness in his eyes and Arthur cannot stomach it, so he stands up, wrenching his body out of his seat so violently the chair nearly clatters to the floor. Then, he paces. </p><p>“No! I don’t—I <em>do</em> like it. Or, I would if I did it right. That’s the thing, I don’t think I’m <em>doing</em> it right, Merlin, every time I try I—I just. I get too nervous and overthink everything and then I just fucking freeze. I don’t know how to kiss a girl,” he finally settles on, fist clenched in his own tunic where the hilt of his sword usually is, when he’s wearing it. He misses the comforting shape in his palm, but bunched fabric will have to do. Then, as he worries the seam between his fingers, he realizes what he’s just <em>said, </em>and rounds on Merlin with a finger held up in fierce warning, “Do <em>not</em> repeat a word of this conversation to anyone, you understand” </p><p>Merlin, who is looking up at him with barely concealed glee, does not promise silence. On the contrary he bursts into<em> laughter, </em>and Arthur positively hates the way he <em>knows</em> he should be furious his servant is an insubordinate and incompetent disaster, at the same time he’s so deeply relieved that Merlin is his best friend. That he can trust him to be <em>honest, </em>and transparent, and treat Arthur like a human and not just a king. </p><p>He grabs him by his bandana and wrestles him to the floor anyway, though. “Promise me,” he says, digging a knee into his ribcage. “You won’t say anything to Gwen.” </p><p>Merlin wheezes, tears on his still-grinning cheeks. “Your secret is quite safe with me, sire.” </p><p>Arthur lets him up, sighing and crossing his arms over his chest upon standing. “So, what do I do?” he asks then. </p><p>“Well. You learn to kiss, obviously. Practice makes perfect, isn't that what they say?” Merlin offers, rolling onto his back and peering up at Arthur from the floor, his eyes glittering so conspiratorially it makes Arthur want to climb back on top of him and tackle the shimmer right out. </p><p>“I don’t want to <em>practice</em> on Gwen, she deserves someone—someone who can do it properly.” </p><p>“Well, what exactly do you think you’re doing wrong?” Merlin asks, furrowing his brow. “Kissing isn’t a science.” </p><p>Arthur feels his cheeks color. “I don’t know how to like.  <em>Move. </em>Escalate. Open my mouth. I just stand there,” he explains, gesturing vaguely with his hands. </p><p>Merlin snorts. “You just <em>stand</em> there?!” </p><p>“Shut up! I’ve never <em>kissed</em> anyone before her,” Arthur admits, and he <em>does it</em> to give himself an excuse for his behavior, but the second the words leave his mouth he realizes it only serves to embarrass him <em>further. </em>Merlin looks so smug and delighted and <em>condescending </em>he should step on him. </p><p>“Ok, so maybe it’s like—built up in your head as this grand, frightening thing when it’s not. Which is why you need to <em>do</em> it more, to demystify it. Honestly Arthur, I’m <em>sure </em>Gwen wouldn’t mind. She loves you, she—”</p><p>“No,” Arthur argues, gut clenching at the mere <em>idea</em> of not measuring up to the task in her eyes. “I can’t.” </p><p>Merlin makes an impatient face. “Ok, fine then, practice with someone who <em>isn’t </em>Gwen. Someone who can teach you the mechanics of it, so you can bring them <em>back</em> to her and sweep her off her feet with your kissing prowess.” </p><p>Arthur wrinkles his nose and sways on the spot, a little dizzy. Merlin’s eyes are very blue right now, and it’s alarming. “Ok, in theory this is a fantastic plan.  But where on <em>earth </em>would I find a kissing teacher? I’d be the laughing stock of the castle. It’s humiliating to even think about. Plus, if it were any random serving girl it would inevitably get back to Gwen, and that—admitting to her I sought out <em>instruction—</em>it’s mortifying.” </p><p>Merlin gets up from the floor, brushes himself off, and shakes his head a few times, as if he’s contemplating saying something Arthur won’t like. Reflexively Arthur bristles, prepared for a barb or an insult of <em>something </em>prickly he probably deserves.But that’s not what happens. </p><p>“<em>I </em>wouldn’t tell a soul,” Merlin says, something peculiar and unreadable eclipsing over his face. </p><p>Arthur stares, puzzled, trapped. He has <em>no</em> idea what Merlin is implying until his tongue flashes out, lightning quick over a plump bottom lip, and then it hits him like a blast of fire. “<em>You!?” </em>he spits out, backing up clumsily and rapidly until he knocks into the table and nearly capsizes over it. “We can’t—you—<em>men</em> don’t just—”</p><p>Merlin barks out a laugh, high and tinny and sharp. “I can assure you, they <em>do, </em>Arthur. Don’t be naive, it’s not becoming.” </p><p>Arthur blinks, cheeks infernally hot. In all honesty, he <em>does</em> know men do such things. He’s well aware of men like this, in fact there are two knights he trains with every day, and it never really bothered him what they got up to behind closed doors as long as they were honorable and loyal and served Camelot. He’s even considered the possibility Merlin might be of this particular persuasion, but he does <em>not </em>like the way the thought twists up in his gut and spurs his blood, so he’s always defaulted to pushing it stubbornly to the recesses of his mind. He’s not sure why Merlin is different from the knights, but he is. </p><p>But now, Arthur is being inevitably forced to think about it. He studies the thoughtful shape of Merlin’s mouth, heart pounding. </p><p>It’s not like he’s never noticed his lips before. They’re very pink and soft and shapely like a girl’s lips, and Arthur has teased him <em>plenty</em> of times about the delicacy of his features. Merlin is not handsome, and though Arthur insists upon every opportunity that this makes him ugly, the truth is that he’s actually very—<em>pretty, </em>he supposes. It does not fill Arthur with a sense of dread or disgust to imagine kissing him. In fact, it’s almost comforting. He <em>knows</em> Merlin. Merlin knows him. He is his insubordinate incompetent disaster of a servant, at the same time he is his best friend. “You’d let me kiss you?” he eventually asks, words drawn tight with skepticism. </p><p>Merlin’s gaze flashes. “Yes,” he says very seriously. “But more importantly, I’d kiss <em>you</em> and show you how it’s done when it's done properly.” </p><p>His voice is low and each word comes out solemn like a promise. Like a <em>vow. </em>Arthur forces himself to scoff, even though his stomach is knotted up and plummeting. “And what do <em>you </em>know about kissing?” </p><p>Merlin makes an affronted face, bending to scoop up Arthur’s boots and the forgotten polish rag. He sinks back into his chair, the very picture of nonchalance. “Plenty,” he says, eyes downcast. “There’s much you don’t know about my life in Ealdor.” </p><p>And Arthur says nothing, because he supposes he can’t contest that. After a few moments, he sits back down and takes a bite of his food. It’s cold but tastes good, and its only then that he realizes how powerfully hungry he is. “Fine,” he says after a few minutes, the word thick through his full mouth, crumbs spewing out onto the table for Merlin to wipe up later. He swallows. “I’ll think about it.” </p><p>—-</p><p>Thinking about it ends up being <em>all</em> Arthur does, actually, for the next few days. </p><p>He thinks about who Merlin might have kissed. He thinks about kissing Merlin. He thinks about his plump mouth and peaked upper lip, he stares at it when he talks, considers it thoughtfully, obsessively, and perhaps not at all objectively. He lies awake at night with his hand very low on his stomach, willing his body to stop reacting to the mere <em>idea</em> of tasting Merlin’s breath, sifting fingers through the short dark strands of his hair and holding him steady enough to drink from. </p><p>It’s because he <em>can’t</em> kiss Gwen, he decides. If he figured out how to <em>do</em> that, then he wouldn’t be getting hot-faced and fidgety and half-hard at the thought of kissing <em>Merlin</em>. This is the realization that finally pushes him into action. </p><p>“Well, let’s get on with it,”  he says impatiently the following evening, after Merlin has shut the doors to his quarters behind them after dinner. “Show me.” </p><p>Merlin spins on his heel as Arthur rounds on him. “Show you what?” he asks breathlessly like a fucking <em>idiot, </em>and frustration bubbles up in Arthurs throat because he doesn't want to <em>say</em> it, he doesn’t want to feel the shameful outline of those words in his mouth so instead he makes a fist in the front of Merlin’s tunic and drags him in by it until their knees knock together. “You know” he says, gaze fixed on those pink parted lips, his own mouth flooding in anticipation. </p><p>Merlin, who is <em>awful, </em>licks his mouth reflexively, eyes wide and shocked before he shoves Arthur away. “Well there’s your <em>first</em> problem, he says as he straightens his clothes, cheeks very pink, pupils blown midnight black and tar-pit sticky as he glares at Arthur indignantly. “I hope you don't grab Gwen by her dress like that.” </p><p>“Of course not!” Arthur sputters, horrified he would even suggest such a thing. “Who do you think I <em>am</em>? Gwen is—-Gwen! I’d never.” he explains, because this makes all the difference in the world. He doesn't <em>have</em> to think, with Merlin. He can just give into the tide, and let it take him. He can leave the ritual and decorum and stress of courtship behind upon the shore. “You’re my servant, and a <em>man</em>. I think,” he tacks the last bit on as a joke, because he desperately needs <em>something</em> to break the tension crackling between them, drawn tight like something poised to snap.</p><p>It doesn't work. Merlin makes an impatient sound in his throat and scrubs a hand over his very troublesome mouth. “Well kissing me like I'm your <em>manservant</em> won’t help you kiss Gwen like the lady you love. You need to kiss <em>me</em> like I’m Gwen,” he suggests.  </p><p>Arthur bristles before eventually softening. Merlin, for all his idiocy and innumerable short-comings, is occasionally right. This won’t <em>work </em>if he can’t generalize what he learns. “Fine,” he concedes, raking tremulous fingers through his hair and sagging against his desk, defeated. “Tell me what to do, then.” </p><p>Merlin takes a deep gasping breath like he’s about to plunge into cold water, and then he begins to pace somewhat frantically across the room. “Ok, ok, let me think. I—we need—well. <em>I </em>need wine for this.” </p><p>Arthur glances around the room, eyes snagging on the decanter of brandy sitting atop the desk. He takes it in hand and holds it up. “Will this do? </p><p>“Perfect,” Merlin murmurs, taking it from him and pouring them each generous glasses. They clink them together in a messy toast, and then they down them both in choking swallows. </p><p>In the new dizzy heat that follows, Arthur lets himself really <em>look</em> at Merlin, study his profile by the firelight and imagine kissing him the way he would a woman. The way he would <em>Gwen. </em>His stomach drops, cock twitching in his trousers as he shifts his weight and clears his throat.  “Where do we start?” he asks. </p><p>“Um,” Merlin says, pursing his lips and thumbing over the rim of his glass. “Tell me more about what’s happening with Gwen. What’s it like, kissing her.” </p><p><em>Good, wonderful.</em> Arthur wants to say, but he <em>knows</em> that's a lie and he can’t lie to Merlin, not under these circumstances, not <em>now. </em> So, he sighs and shakily pours himself a bit more brandy before admitting, “Profoundly and distractingly nerve-wracking.” </p><p>“You said you freeze?” Merlin asks gently. </p><p>“Yes. I—I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or my lips for that matter. Forget <em>entirely</em> about the tongue.” </p><p>Merlin, who is a very bad person, laughs at him, snorting and hiccuping until he realizes Arthur is <em>not</em> laughing alongside him and quells it with a nervous cough. “I’m sorry, Sire. It’s just. You’re so confident in other aspects of your life, beyond confident and well into <em>arrogant, </em>really, and it’s…I’m charmed to know this and honored you trust me enough to confess this.”</p><p>Arthur chews the inside of his cheek. “I’m beginning to regret it,” he grumbles. “I don’t want to <em>talk</em> about it, I just want to learn how to get better. I just need to be <em>shown </em>the hands and the mouths and the tongues bit.” </p><p>Fucking finally, <em>Merlin</em> is the one to flush, and that just makes Arthur’s insides gather and knot all over again. </p><p>“I understand,”  he says softly, nodding to himself entirely too long before something almost like a self deprecating smile flickers over his face and he turns back to Arthur. “Alright. We’re doing this. Come here.” </p><p>Mechanically and on leaden legs, Arthur does. His heart is pounding in his chest, so hard he feels like he’s vibrating with the force, like he might come apart. He sets this glass down and boxes Merlin in with his feet, their faces a whisper apart. He can smell him, herbs and soil and pine and—“Kiss me like you kiss Gwen, and then we’ll go from there,” he says, and <em>oh, </em>there’s the scent of his exhalation, too. Brandy hot, spiced and sweet. </p><p>Arthur nods crisply, places one hand on Merlin’s narrow shoulder and cups the other at his jaw, and does it. </p><p>He expects to balk, but instead he melts quite suddenly into the terrible burn of it all. Merlin’s lips are soft, <em>so</em> fucking soft, but there’s also stubble on his jaw and that surprises Arthur, spikes hot and low in his gut as he thumbs over it, his other hand slipping easily into merlin’s hair, feeling his oily roots, the slippery warmth of the strands, the heat of his scalp. And just like that, their mouths are moving. Shifting against each other, trading breath. It’s warm and dry until it’s very suddenly hot and wet, and Arthur’s not—he’s not even sure how it happens, really, but their tongues are flicking out and together and he’s instantly nothing but breathless trembles, quaking like a storm. Merlin <em>tastes</em> good and he <em>feels</em> good and so Arthur greedily tugs at his hair, pulls him close and licks over his teeth until he groans a little and <em>fuck</em> he didn't know you could <em>kiss</em> someone deeply enough to elicit an involuntary sound and he wants to do it again, he wants—he wants so much it feels like drowning and he’s terrifically dizzy so, in a flash of panic, he pulls away. “Fuck,” he chokes, catching his breath. </p><p>Merlin’s face is red, and the whole of his body is shaking. His mouth is also very, very wet and bitten looking, obscene like a wound. “Um,” he huffs out against Arthur’s mouth, the smell of his breath so dizzyingly good Arthur has to let go of him and step away lest he dive back in to drown. He stares helplessly at Merlin instead, feeling drunk on the brightness of his eyes, the messiness of his hair, the dual spots of color on his high, sharp cheekbones. It all feels like a revelation, like Arthur is seeing him for the very first time. “That certainly wasn’t what I was expecting,” Merlin eventually says. </p><p>It is very <em>like </em>Merlin, to say something makes Arthur want to shove him into a wall. “<em>What</em>? Why?” he snaps defensively. “Was it <em>that</em> bad or—”</p><p>“No!” Merlin says, the word an overwhelmed, pleading sound scraping low in his throat. He shakes his head, gaze skittering all over Arthur before landing on his mouth as he blurts, “It just was—<em>well. </em>If you must know, it was sloppy. I expected you to freeze, you <em>told</em> me you freeze, but instead you shoved your tongue in my mouth and pulled my hair, so. I’m just trying to keep up.” </p><p>A prickling feeling courses through Arthur’s body. Something like defense, something like vulnerability. Something connected to the familiar sensation of discomfort that follows him whenever he’s wondered if Merlin is like his knights, the ones who carry secrets close to their heart, locked up and hidden. </p><p>He shakes his head, skin prickling. “Well! You’re not Gwen, what do you expect?!” </p><p>Merlin stands there for a moment, nothing but rigidity and wide, ice-blue eyes as he chews over words unsaid. Then, something resolute comes over him and he declares, “Take your boots off.” </p><p>Arthur’s mouth drops open and he gasps, scandalized. “Excuse me! <em>You</em> take my boots off!” </p><p>Merlin just shrugs, mouth flickering in its spit-shine. “Fine then. Sit down,” he says, grabbing Arthur by his shoulders and steering him to the edge of the bed, where he makes him sit. Then, he hauls his legs up one by one and tugs each boot off, jaw set into a hard line, motions deliberate and forceful. “We’re going to proceed lying down in your bed,” he says, eyes very dark and very carefully avoiding Arthur’s face. “And you are <em>not</em> going to stick your tongue down my throat and you are <em>not</em> going to get carried away until I tell you to. You are going to <em>lie</em> there, and let me take the lead. Are we clear?” he asks, finally glancing down at Arthur and catching his eyes. The sudden connection makes the air sizzle, makes Arthur’s gut clench up in hot, powerful longing. </p><p>It doesn’t sound <em>half</em> as fun, to be ordered around by his servant, and there’s something resistant prickling in his chest at Merlin’s <em>tone, </em>but at the same time, this is what Arthur asked for. What he <em>needs. </em>Not to snog Merlin so messily he forgets where he is, but a <em>kissing</em> lesson, of sorts. Something valuable, with utility. He sighs and flops back down onto the pillows, defeated. “Fine,” he bites out. </p><p>“Good,” Merlin says almost under his breath, voice a far away rumble like distant thunder. He strides to the table and takes a big, noisy swig of brandy from the decanter, and then he climbs into Arthur’s bed alongside him, so close Arthur can feel the thrumming heat of his body. His eyes are blue glass in the night, and they darken like deep water when he asks, “May I kiss you?” so seriously it almost sounds like grief. </p><p>Arthur fidgets, rolls his eyes. “Yes. That’s the idea, isn't it?” And he tries to say this sharply, but whatever blade he attempts to arm his words with falls away into dust as Merlin dips closer, descending upon him with long, cool fingers spreading across the fever of his face. His blood races, his mouth falls open and slack and gasping and then, Merlin is kissing him. Sweetly, gently, but there all the same.  </p><p>It’s fucking maddening. Arthur feels like he’s going to explode. He kisses back in a helpless fervor, their lips dragging together slick and hot until Merlin presses a punishing thumb into the place where Arthur’s pulse is racing along with the rest of him. “Slow down,” he murmurs, close enough their lips ghost together, breath a shared mess of brandy sweet humidity and <em>fuck, </em>Arthur’s hips lock, they lift, his cock throbs in his trousers. “Just let me,” Merlin breathes, and <em>god, </em>that doesn’t help anything.</p><p>It proves to be quite difficult to just <em>let him. </em>Arthur wants more—he feels <em>deprived, </em>starved. Like every long-suffering and painful second he stood with Gwen, their lips locked and unmoving, were bearing down upon him now in judgement, begging him to <em>do</em> something. His hands skitter down Merlin’s shoulders, mauling the fabric over his slight frame. “Is this ok?” he asks through gritted teeth. </p><p>“Slower,” Merlin tells him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You don’t want to scare her away. </p><p><em>Who? </em>Arthur thinks for a moment, even though she was <em>just</em> on his mind. It’s speeding desperately ahead though, liquor-spurred and delirious. <em>Right</em>. Gwen. Touch Merlin how he would touch Gwen. </p><p>His hands shake as he smooths one cup to Merlin's chest, thin and almost so flat it’s concave in places. He can feel his heart pounding here beneath the lattice of bones and flesh, and that makes Arthur feel little more in control, somehow. The presses of Merlin’s lips are lingering and deep but at least <em>some</em> part of him is as frantic as Arthur feels. “That’s it,” Merlin hisses, their lips catching, spit-slick and sweet. “You can touch me.” </p><p>He’s not sure why, but that breaks something in his chest, and so suddenly, Arthur feels like sobbing. He manages to hold it back, though, eyes prickling and throat thick as he thumbs up to Merlin’s throat, loosening the laces of his tunic with his thumb, feeling soft skin warmed beneath the heat of his bandana. It shouldn’t feel like a revelation. He touches Merlin all the time, every day, he has the shape of his shoulders under his palms memorized enough to call it to mind several times a day, without effort. He is <em>always</em> punching him in the arm or steering him about or dragging him out of danger. But being told he <em>can—</em>like this, nothing more than a whisper—it chokes him silent, so all he can do is be kissed and count heartbeats. </p><p>Eventually Merlin licks the seam of his lips, and Arthur’s mind whites out in stars. He melts against Merlin’s body, mouth opening as Merlin exhales into him, parts him, sucks at his lips, uses his teeth. It’s miraculous, it’s too much, it’s <em>everything. </em>And then, just when Arthur is afraid he might come apart at the seams and float away, Merlin pulls away just enough to murmur, “Give me your tongue.” His voice is so low, eyes flickering and half lidded, bright like the first flames drug up from the snap of flint and timber. </p><p>A maddening clench happens in Arthur’s gut as he does as he’s told, tongue prodding gently at Merlin's swollen lower lip, cock fat and leaking against his own thigh, too-tight in the trappings of his trousers. <em>Please, </em>he thinks, and it should be mortifying, to imagine saying such a thing to Merlin. Who is his servant, and also his best friend. </p><p>He doesn't have time to be mortified, though. Immediately Merlin sucks his tongue into his mouth, pulling on it in wet, greedy pulses that make Arthur absolutely mad with hunger. He’s forgotten why they're doing this. He’s forgotten pretty much everything save for the way Merlin feels against him, the way their hips are rocking together, the way he is mostly bones, the way that somehow still feels <em>soft</em> to Arthur, at the thrumming core of things where it all counts most.  Then there’s the slick heat of his mouth, rhythmic and suction-tight and —<em>fuck.  </em>Arthurpulls away from the kiss to gaze frantically down between their bodies, where they’re both hard and pressed flush. “You’re—“ he says, dazed and awed. </p><p>“Yeah,” Merlin pants, the word curt and clipped between so much breath. It huffs out onto Arthur’s lips, and it makes him dizzy with one hundred things unsaid. Merlin makes a face. “Sorry,” he mumbles, an afterthought.  </p><p>Arthur does not want him to be sorry. He wants him—he <em>wants</em> him. He wants Merlin’s hard cock, whatever that means, however that’s <em>done. </em>He cannot believe that he <em>did</em> that to Merlin, that giving his tongue as an offering to suck on, that petting his fingers up over the bones in his sternum, that such <em>small, </em>simple, clumsy gestures made him <em>hard.  </em>Arthur is absurdly pleased with himself, actually, so pleased he cannot even panic about the terrible tide of desire building in him, the way this situation has grown past its borders and gotten out of hand. He’s dizzy with want, drunk on the taste of Merlin’s breath, the heat of his body, and he doesn’t even <em>care. </em></p><p>He easily rolls him onto his back and grinds down against him, pleasure spiking at the friction, at the way Merlin’s insanely pretty lips are so fucking swollen and red, his throat extended beautifully like a skyline of snowy mountains in the dark. Without even thinking, Arthur affixes his mouth there and sucks, scouring over stubble. “Don’t be sorry,” he huffs out before his lips skim up over Merlin’s thundering pulse, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Give me <em>your</em> tongue, now,” he begs, and Merlin groans in overwhelm before he does, crushing their mouths together and licking hungrily into Arthur so he can suck. It takes him a few tries to really figure out the mechanics, but once he does it’s <em>perfect, </em>it’s <em>filthy, </em>it’s something he never thought possible. He sucks, and he sucks again, sliding the tight-hot seal of his lips up and down Merlin’s tongue and in seconds he’s <em>coming</em> like that, rocking against Merlin between his narrow thighs, spilling into his trousers as his vision gives way to storm-white.  When he rolls off his chin is raw and drool wet, and he wipes his mouth before he collapses, staring up at the crushed red velvet canopy above his bed and trying his hardest to remember how one <em>breathes. “</em>Fucking hell,” he eventually murmurs.  </p><p>“Ah,” Merlin pants, and Arthur turns to look at him, at how red and swollen his mouth has gotten, at the wet spot on his trousers where <em>he</em> must have come too. His stomach plummets at the sight, and he realizes with a lurch of shock that he <em>wants</em> to keep touching Merlin. He came, but nothing has changed. He imagines pushing his tunic up, smoothing palms other warm skin, how <em>easy</em> it would be to mark up skin so pale. “I, um. I hope you’re not planning on taking that approach with Gwen,” Merlin says. </p><p><em>Gwen. </em>Arthur tears his eyes away, stomach suddenly roiling in confusion, in—shame, maybe. “Of course not,” he scoffs.  “I just. This is good, I think, a good help. Figuring all this out <em>before</em> I try any of it with her. It’s like the horses, you know…if they’ve been in the stall all winter, we let them run around a bit before riding. So they burn energy. I’m getting rid of some of this pent up…” he gestures loosely, hand a white, frustrated shape in the semi-darkness.  “<em>Desire,” </em>he ends up blurting, though that is not at all what he means. There are too many words, most of them meaningless, and they hang in the dark like stars and he wishes so badly he could take them all back, but. There are some things that cannot be undone. </p><p>“Right,” Merlin says flatly, rolling away from Arthur, disentangling with all the places they were once touching. Arthur frowns at the sound of his voice because it’s— resigned, maybe. Or perhaps just tired. <em>Arthur</em> is certainly tired, anyway. He's exhausted, eyes heavy as he pulls off his tunic and gets under the covers, yawning, sheets sticking to his sweat-tacky skin. “Any feedback?” he asks, prodding Merlin’s back between the sharp wings of his shoulder blades. </p><p>There’s a moment of silence, then a sudden intake of breath. Arthur thinks for a terrifying moment that Merlin is going to tell him off for something, but instead he just exhales, shoulders rocking with the force of it before he rolls over to lock eyes with him. “You kiss too wet,” he says, demonstrating by wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Too much spit for the likes of Gwen, I think. And you get quite rough and demanding when you’re—“ </p><p>“Don’t say it,” Arthur snaps, reaching out and flattening his palm over Merlin’s obscene mouth so he doesn’t have to watch it utter the word <em>aroused. </em>But then it’s right there, hot and soft against the lifeline of his palm, and <em>that</em> is certainly not any better so he pulls away with a jerk before letting his hand curl around the small, delicate bird-bones of Merlin’s wrist.  “I know. I’ll work on that next time,” he promises. </p><p>Merlin’s eyes flash and he pries Arthur’s hand off. “Next time?” he asks, and Arthur thinks he can feel the way his blood speeds before his fingers fall away. </p><p>“Yes, if you’re alright with that,” he mumbles, grateful for the darkness as his cheeks heat up. </p><p>Merlin is quiet for a very long time, staring resolutely at the place where Arthur’s hand fell between them, the gentle, unassuming way this fingers are curled in towards the spit-mark on his palm. Or at least, Arthur hopes it’s unassuming, just like he hopes his heart will slow down and stop thundering so loudly in his ribcage. “Yes, m’alright with it,” Merlin says eventually, looking up and holding Arthur’s gaze in the dark. </p><p>“Are you though?” Arthur asks with narrowed eyes, just to be sure. </p><p>Merlin looks affronted. “Yes, I absolutely am. I swear it.” </p><p>They look at each other in the darkness for a few moments, and everything is tense and wavering, something pulled tight to the point of snapping. </p><p>“Ok then. Tomorrow?” Arthur suggests, and even though his cock is soft and quite spent, it twitches anyway art the mere thought of <em>having</em> Merlin like this again. Having an excuse to have him. Skin and breath and lips. His teeth start to chatter a bit at the thought, and he tightens his blankets around himself defensively. </p><p>“Sure, tomorrow,” Merlin says quietly, sitting up and shaking his head, straightening his clothes before rolling from Arthur’s bed. The mattress creaks at his departure. “Goodnight, Sire. I’ll see you in the morning. Bright and early for breakfast.” </p><p>“Yes, right then. Good night,” Arthur says awkwardly, throat strange and tight as he watches Merlin pull on this boots and head towards the door. “Oh, and Merlin,” he says, making a fist in his sheets, breath staggering in his throat, choking him silent. </p><p>The shape of Merlin’s back pauses before he turns, face moon-white and pale in the shadows as he regards Arthur, bruise dark shadows beneath his eyes.  “Yes?” </p><p>“I. Thank you,” Arthur grinds out, like each syllable pains him. And it <em>does, </em>this time. He’s not sure why, but it aches to recognize this was a favor, in its heart of hearts. An arrangement, a decision reached by two parties rather than a matter of the heart.  He sweeps his tongue over his lips, and watches Merlin watch him. </p><p>Then he smiles a peculiar smile, one that does not brighten his eyes but sits on his mouth, drawing it tight into something that almost looks like a grimace. “It’s no problem at all, my lord,” he says, nodding. And then he leaves. </p><p>It is entirely too long before Arthur actually falls asleep that night, and then the only way he manages to do so is if he draws his smallest and flattest and lumpiest pillow beneath the drape of his arm, and pretends Merlin remained here, laid out beside him like a question mark, their bodies slotted together strange and secret in the black of night. </p><p>He dreams of unfreezing, of hands and heat and what it felt like to thaw beneath their promise. And then, upon waking in a sickly sweat and turning over only to realize he’s alone, he falls back into a fitful slumber, and this time dreams of nothing at all. </p><p>—-</p>
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